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<title>La Valse de L'Amour by KrisseyCrystal (IceCreAMS)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155169">La Valse de L'Amour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceCreAMS/pseuds/KrisseyCrystal'>KrisseyCrystal (IceCreAMS)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fluff Bingo [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tales of Vesperia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ballroom Dancing, Crushes, Drabble, Estelle is mentioned, F/F, Fluff, Fluff Bingo!, Pining, Post-Canon, Rita's got it b a d, and gushed about a lot, it's also really sappy did i mention that? woops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:00:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceCreAMS/pseuds/KrisseyCrystal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rita slides down to the floor and brings her knees up to her chest. She cups her hands over her face; after a moment, they slide down to clasp over her chest. She closes her eyes.</p><p>“Damn,” she whispers to the air. “Can’t believe I’m in love with a fucking princess.” </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Estellise Sidos Heurassein/Rita Mordio</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fluff Bingo [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Oliver’s birthday zine, Writing Squad Fluff Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>La Valse de L'Amour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oliver__Niko/gifts">Oliver__Niko</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Where Rita Mordio first went wrong was looking at her hands. And it’s admittedly funny, maybe: how sensory memory can be such an experiential thing to relive over and over and over again. What’s not funny is her memory and all of her foolish feelings and her hypersensitive nerves getting in the way of her vital work.</p><p>She switches on the lab’s lights and glances at her fingers. Her face burns red. The memory of warmth and satin white gloves under those same fingers the previous night floods her, latches like a sticky glob of honey to the inside of her brain. </p><p>
  <em> It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. </em>
</p><p>But there’s a song stuck in her head now: some waltz-y schmaltz with bouncing strings that encourages her feet to move in a bending, swinging rhythm like the sway of the ribbons that dangled from Estelle’s hair. The princess’ pink up-do had been wrapped in gleaming, pale turquoise. Last night, Rita had half-wondered if she was seeing things or if Estelle’s hair really was sparkling with stars. Maybe she had one too many glasses of champagne?</p><p>
  <em> But gosh; Estelle had been gorgeous in that aqua gown. A vision. And the way her eyes wrinkled at the edges when she laughed—  </em>
</p><p>Rita stops herself and smacks her burning cheeks with both hands. <em> Damn it! Focus, Rita! You have important research to do!  </em></p><p>
  <em> But all of your work is for her, anyway, isn’t it?  </em>
</p><p>Rita swallows and ignores the orchestra in her head and the way she wants to spin to her desk and slams her hands on the worktable. She ignores the voice in her head that asks, <em> So what does this mean? </em> and challenges it by asking, <em> What does what mean? </em></p><p>
  <em> That you’ve devoted the rest of your life to helping one girl and now the only thing you can do is think about the way her hand fits perfectly in yours? </em>
</p><p>Rita shoves her hands over her face again, moaning to herself. “Ugh. Stop it…”</p><p>But the heat of Estelle’s waist under her hand is hard to forget. The twin contact points of Estelle’s palm against hers; the gravitational pull to draw the princess flush against her as they danced. Estelle had such grace to her in the arched line of her spine; such perfect ballroom behavior that was all learned, no doubt. Something she had lived under and studied because she was a princess and could have been the empress and those were the kind of things that made Rita sweat when she remembered that they were, in fact, fact.</p><p>Her eyes had followed the sweep of Estelle’s lifted jaw many times last night. The pale, soft skin of her neck had been unbearably tempting, something Rita <em>hates </em>actually admitting. But maybe in the solitude of her lab, such thoughts were…permissible. </p><p>And yet even with such practiced poise due to a childhood Rita had never known, she was still the same Estelle.</p><p>The bend of her painted lips to part around her kind smiles hadn’t changed. The way her sea-green eyes bored into Rita and didn’t waver as Rita babbled while they stood beside the buffet table. The way Estelle’s entire universe, for one breathless moment, revolved around her. Under that kind of attention and pressure, something in Rita forgot to function.</p><p>It didn’t matter how boring their conversations were. Estelle had gotten Rita to open up about all sorts of research, even the dustiest, oldest ones of her school-hood studies, and Estelle had listened to every factoid and tangent without a single complaint.</p><p>Such an earnest audience had been—still is—the most humbling thing to experience.</p><p>Rita turns around and leans against her lab worktable. Her hands curl against the edge and remember the way she had slid those fingers up along Estelle’s arm. She remembers Estelle’s gasp: the tiniest hitch in her breathing that set off fireworks in Rita’s gut.</p><p>They had danced. </p><p>And the sway of their bodies had been everything for those few minutes of a perfect dream.</p><p>Rita slides down to the floor and brings her knees up to her chest. She cups her hands over her face; after a moment, they slide down to clasp over her chest. She closes her eyes.</p><p>“Damn,” she whispers to the air. “Can’t believe I’m in love with a fucking princess.” </p><p>
  <em> But man, do I wish I could dance with her every day. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLLIE (PART 2)! </p><p>written for Ollie's birthday zine, a fun endeavor a few of Ollie's friends put together with fanart and fanfics to celebrate a very special friend's birthday</p><p>this was my drabble i wrote, since Ollie requested "ballroom dancing" w/ Ristelle from my Fluff Bingo! card ages ago. i thought it was high time to deliver! plus this was a LOT of fun to write</p><p>thanks for reading!</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/kissykrissey">tw</a> / <a href="https://somefinelipstickonthatpig.tumblr.com/">tblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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